


Each tree a thousand branches

by MadHatter13



Category: The Memoirs of Lady Trent - Marie Brennan
Genre: Developing Friendships, Gen, Isabella being a role model/inspiration for budding scientists, Period-Typical Sexism, some pre-ship Isabella/Suhail
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-28 06:53:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7629340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadHatter13/pseuds/MadHatter13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Throughout her career as a naturalist, Lady Trent has the privilege to inspire (and be inspired).</p>
<p>--<br/>A series on Isabella, Lady Trent, and the many scientific minds she has inspired and been inspired by.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An inexperienced lecturer

 

On the first speaking event I ever conducted after returning from Eriga, I admit it. I was terribly nervous. Even though the expedition had been incredibly successful, I still did not have the reputation as a scholar I later achieved. I did not even know if anyone would attend such a lecture because although I and many others find dragons fascinating beyond belief, they often do not feature largely in the lives of most people, at least in Scirland (very much unlike rural Vystrania). I tried to think even less of the many who would never attend a lecture given by a woman. At the time I might have been a gentleman‘s daughter, and the wife of one distressingly deceased, but I had yet to acquire any titles of my own to give me leverage. Hence, even the small town hall in the city of Fernham seemed ominous, despite the red bricks and somewhat mouldy windows.

Nevertheless I think I conducted myself quite well up until the point where a man with the most objectionable muttonchops sitting in the fourth row (for the turnout had been much better than I‘d hoped for) leaned forward and said, in the sugary condescending tones of someone addressing a child, ‘And your qualifications, Madame?’

That stopped me half-way through an explanation of the hunting methods of the swamp-wyrms, as he had not bothered to wait through for the question and answer portion of the event. ‘Pardon?’ I said, not quite believing his rudeness.

                ‘I simply meant to inquire Madame, if you had in fact had any education on the subject,’ he said, in the same saccharine tones. Around him, a few men hid a grin, while next to him, a girl that looked like she had to be his daughter lowered her head in embarrassment.

                I stared at him. During my stay in Eriga, we had often been so far from people with the same values regarding the sciences as in my homeland, that I had not encountered the question for months. It was however not unfamiliar to me. ‘Sir, I am sure you are aware that no university offers lectures specializing in the subject.’ The silent implication was of course that even if one did, they would not let a woman attend. ‘I have, however, read most published works on the subject, correspond with dozens of dragon specialists on the continent, and have spent quite a long time observing dragons, their behaviour and anatomy in the field for quite some time, most notably in Vystrania and the Bayembe region in Eriga, with my colleague Mr. Wilker.’

                All of this had been included in the small pamphlet we had handed out to advertise these lectures. It was nothing that the man did not already know. But neither did I feel that, as experience went, it was insufficient.

                ‘So I gather,’ he said, still not abandoning his annoying tone of voice. ‘But as for _qualifications_ –‘

                I narrowed my eyes. The lecture was only supposed to last an hour, and he was wasting my time. ‘Sir, have _you_ spent the last six months trampling through jungle, drawing the anatomical details of a dragon sleeping on a log not ten feet away from you, knowing that if you fall into the creek you will be devoured by Fangfish?’

                The man, muttonchops flailing, jerked back in his seat at my frosty tone. ‘I – no?’

                ‘Hm. I suggest you try it sometime. It is most invigorating.’

                I took that chance to continue my lecture, and thankfully did not receive any further such challenges. The man seemed appropriately cowed, but I noted that next to him, his daughter was looking up once again, her eyes wide and shining.

                When the event had concluded with questions from the audience,* and I had went to retrieve my papers and specimens and other things, that girl came up to me, red-faced and definitely sidling, as she had left her father behind somewhere out in the corridor. I waited until she addressed me until I turned around. ‘Erm... Excuse me Miss – I mean, Mrs. Camherst?’

*A few of which were distressingly on the subject of whether the inhabitants of Bayembe really went around half-naked all the time ‘like savages,’ which I dealt with by being completely straightforward and not even a little bit embarrassed, which I suspect is the reaction they’d been hoping for.

                ‘Yes?’ I turned to her, unwittingly holding a Fangfish in a jar of formaldehyde in one hand and a Savannah-snake’s talon in the other. She gulped.

                ‘Er, my name is Ethel Peel, ma’am. And I would just like to thank you for your lecture, ma’am. I – I don’t get many chances to learn such a lot of about dragons!’

                And all at once, her enthusiasm came bursting through, and I saw the face I saw in the mirror every morning: Something a little bit like love and a little bit like hunger, driven by the need to know more, to see and experience this one aspect of the world to its fullest potential.

                She must have been not much younger than I had been when I had seen the dragons at the King’s Menagerie. Judging by the way her father dressed, and the quality of her own clothes, he was a clerk of some sort. Not a gentleman’s daughter, and a daughter on top of that. And her father did not seem to be nearly as open-minded regarding the education of women as mine was – and that was not a lot, to tell the truth.

                I carefully put down the specimens. ‘You are interested in natural history?’ I asked.

                ‘Yes, very much, ma’am! I’ve learned the names and songs of all the birds I’ve seen in our county, and where they like to make their nests and when they, er, mate.’ She blushed, but continued. ‘But dragons fascinate me most of all, ma’am!’ Then she became downcast. ‘But... father doesn’t much like me learning – languages and such are alright, but he thinks learning natural history would overheat a woman’s brain. I apologize for his words earlier.’

                “Sod him!” Is very much what I wanted to say. But we all have to realize some things in our own time, and being antagonistic towards her father wouldn’t help right now. Instead I said, ‘What he says is not your responsibility – and I’ve ran into those kinds of arguments before.’ Every day of my life, it seemed.

                She looked dreadfully wretched all the same, and the feeling struck me: If I was able to save just one person from the grey life I had lived when my passion for the natural world was denied to me, how could I resist?

                Turning around, I scrabbled on the table for something to write on. ‘Here, my address, should you ever wish to write to discuss the subject.’ I had written it on the corner of a recent monograph by A.L. Langsby on the extraordinary breath of the Savannah-snake, and even though I had barely finished with it, I felt not regret in handing it over. ‘I think you’ll find Mr. Langsby’s arguments interesting as well.’

                She looked at me, mouth open, clutching the monograph. Then the voice of her father out in the corridor pulled her into this reality once more, and she hurriedly stuffed the rolled-up papers inside her coat. ‘Thank you!’

Then, she was gone.

I am sure any moderately well-read reader of this memoir will realize the connection, and recognize the girl I would come to correspond with for many years as Professor Ethel Morgan, the first lecturer in the anatomy of dragons at the University of Haversham, who would later come to have a sub-species of sparklings named for her.

But all of us have to start somewhere, and for her, that was at a public lecture with a five shilling entrance fee, some awfully uncomfortable chairs, and a borrowed scientific paper.


	2. Leaps of faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabella, Tom and Suhail discuss evolutionary biology, with a side of flying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gets a little shippy at points (Isabella/Suhail), but is pre-ship if anything.

During the time spent conducting our research in Coyahuac, I can say that second only to sitting in a thicket of the undergrowth with my field glasses and watching the feathered serpent doze on the steps of the enormous pyramid, the evenings I spent in discussion at the hotel with Tom and Suhail were the most treasured.

                It was perhaps the first time I was taken seriously as a scientist – yes, Lord Hilford had believed in my abilities, although he initially invited me along as a curiosity and to scandalize polite society, and Tom and I were by now each other’s best friend and research partners. But it was incredibly refreshing to start my conversation with Suhail – a stranger – as a scientist, and without him doubting my credentials from the beginning. And, having broadened my field of knowledge considerably in the last few years, I felt confident in my knowledge.

                One such early conversation, which often had us sitting on the old wicker chairs on the sunblasted deck of the hotel, turned to our excursion to Eriga, which Suhail was very curious about.

                ‘I have seen much of the northern continent,’ he said, sitting cross-legged in his chair, looking as if he wanted to put one leg over the arm and lounge there, but refraining due to the company. ‘As a part of my Hajj – that is, my pilgrimage – and I saw much of the Draconian ruins there. They are truly magnificent, if almost entirely looted. But I have never been that far south.’

                ‘I’m afraid we didn’t get the chance to see many such ruins,’ I said, refraining from mentioning in detail the ones I had encountered while looking for the “queen” swamp wyrms in the Great Cataract. While I found Suhail very likable, I did not want to break my promise of secrecy to the Moulish, and given his interest in Draconian ruins he likely could not resist trying to find them. I know I would not have been able to do so had it been a chance of seeing an unknown type of dragon rather than ruins.

                ‘No, you were rather to busy being a guerrilla soldier and international diplomat,’ said Tom drily, but with fondness rather than resentment.

                ‘And getting yellow fever,’ I lamented.

                Suhail winced. ‘I’ve seen the effects of that. I can’t imagine it being anything other than terrible.’ I nodded. ‘And the guerrilla warfare?’

                ‘We were forced to stop enemy soldiers from passing through the jungle – by filling the rivers with Fangfish out of season.’ I couldn’t actually regret it, as they would likely have killed the Moulish otherwise – and _did_ kill a few – but I still winced back when Suhail’s eyes widened.

                Thankfully, he dropped the subject, and said instead, ‘The swamp wyrms – given their aquatic lifestyle, do you think there may be any close evolutionary link between them and sea serpents? I believe you said Fangfish are an early stage in the swamp wyrm’s life cycle?’

                I nodded, but frowned in thought. ‘I can’t say I see the immediate resemblance, beyond their habitat. Sea serpents have no limbs and cannot traverse dry land, which the wyrms can in the dry season, even with their rather short legs. There is also the immense size difference to consider. I would sooner compare a swamp wyrm to an alligator or a sea serpent to a water snake than the two to each other, if not for their extraordinary breaths. But there is that initial stage, I’ll grant you...’ It was a question we wouldn’t know the answer to for some time to come, but Tom pointed out one flaw in my argument.

                ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ He sat back in his chair, and took a sip of his drink, always one to feel too warm, even in the mild evening breeze.

                ‘Forgetting what?’

                ‘The female swamp wyrms – or the “queens”, I suppose. I recall your sketches showed no or severely reduced front and back limbs, and scales rather more similar to those of sea serpents than their male counterparts.’

                ‘How could I forget! I had to fly to get there, remember?’

                His voice became even dryer. ‘How could _I_ forget? I still wake up sometime berating myself for not talking you out of it.’

                ‘Well, you would have had to talk Natalie out of it as well, wouldn’t you? It would have been impossible without her. Anyway, the information we gained has been indispensable since.’

                But now Suhail was leaning forward in his seat in a curiously careful manner, his hands together and his eyes inquisitive. ‘I’m sorry – you flew?’

                ‘Well, glided is more the accurate term. Natalie – Miss Oscot, who also came with us for the expedition, is engineer interested in flight, and since our destination was hard to reach any other way, she was able to build me a glider to take me there.’

                ‘Of all your mad plans, that one easily tops the list,’ muttered Tom into his drink.

                I meant to say, ‘then I clearly must aspire to even greater heights,’ if only to shut him up. Had known what awaited me in just a few months... But Suhail spoke before I could, and said in a voice that was half laughter and half something else, ‘And you question _me_ leaping off cliffs?’

                ‘At least I had something to catch me! _You_ threw yourself into the ocean!’

                ‘Arguably the safer option,’ he said, eyes twinkling. Then after a moment’s silence, he asked in a quieter voice, ‘What was it like?’

                I looked back, and saw that given the chance, he would not hesitate to do the same. ‘It is flying,’ I said. ‘I know that sounds redundant, but it’s as terrifying as you would expect, and twice what you hope it would be. It’s throwing yourself at the ground – and missing.’

                The story of my life, if I am to be perfectly honest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest I find it hilarious (and otp-worthy) how the relationship between Isabella and Suhail starts with a 'oh no he's hot' and then moves on to 'she blinded me with science' in like .2 seconds.  
> Taking prompts in this fandom, so feel free to send me some!


	3. A friend's advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After her husband's death in Vystrania, Isabella Camherst receives a regrettable number of offers for her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains minor spoilers for The Tropic of Serpents and The Voyage of the Basilisk, but can be read without having read those two.

The period between my husband‘s death and my voyage on the Basilisk was a difficult one in many ways, chiefly in those of finance and funding, but socially as well. As it was, I had enough on my plate, but it was not yet three months from our return from Vystrania that I received an offer for my hand in marriage – although it was hastily rescinded once it became clear that I was about to become a mother. The man whose offer it was was not one who I knew personally to any serious degree, but I am generally polite to people who do not try my patience overmuch, and apparently he took that to mean he should fall in love with me. I am afraid I did not take the offer kindly. I had recently become a widow and had only just found out that I was pregnant. Thus I made it clear in the iciest of tones that I was not one bit impressed by a man who would swoop down on a woman in mourning in hopes that she would be kindly disposed to anyone who offered as much as a sympathetic word. I am told his flight from my home was impressively quick, and he almost knocked Tom over in the doorway in his haste to leave.

Another such offer was from a naturalist like myself, although that man was over-fond of armchair-science and based all his theories on second-hand reports from the field, instead of getting his shining shoes dirty himself. He was briefly a guest of my Flying University, which met every week in my study. He had come along with Peter Landenbury – an old school friend, I gather – and seemed largely amused at our enterprise, although I will never forget the look on his face the evening Miriam Farnswood very pointedly corrected him on basic avian anatomy. The mere fact that I got engaged in a discussion with him on the recent fossil finds in the southeast a couple of times seemed to indicate to him that I had some tender feelings toward him and he wasted no time proposing. At the time I was so blindsided that I gave a started laugh, assuming that he must be joking. I believe I may quite have embarrassed him, for he never came to our weekly meetings again.

In between I had to put up with a number of men who, going off the rumours about my reputation (which largely assumed that I had been having an affair with Tom for years) assumed they could make some very offensive propositions, whether they themselves were married or not. I dealt with this by being terribly straightforward and on a couple of occasions by alerting their wives of their husbands‘ wanderings, which I gather put them in very hot water for some time.

But every rock erodes with enough wait and abuse, and I found myself thoroughly tired of having to put up with such behaviour, and in a fit of self-pity I wrote a letter to my old friend Maria, giving voice to the question gnawing me: Should I abandon all my friendships towards men, regardless of how fond I was of many of my friends and how necessary it was for my work as a scientist to remain in contact with them? Simply because society refused to see that not every contact between two unrelated people of differing genders must have romantic overtures?

            Her answer was rather long – she‘d been making a name for herself as a novelist lately – but a part of it I always recall whenever I am pestered about my reputation, or offered another distasteful arrangement by a gentleman who does not deserve his title.

            _Dearest Isabella,_

_I understand your phlight, but I realize you must have had a particularly bad day if you ask me in the first place. I remember how terribly unhappy you were not pursuing your calling as a scientist, and while I often do not understand why it is so important to you, I only wish to see you happy. Abadoning your friends for the sake of society‘s approval would only ever make you unhappy._

_I know that if women wish to escape the stigma of husband-seeking, they must act cold, expressionless, bloodless. Every appearance of feeling; joy, sorrow, friendliness, antipathy, admiration or disgust are construed by the world into the attempt to hook a husband._

_Never mind! well-meaning women have their own consciences to comfort them after all. Do not, therefore, be too much afraid of showing yourself as you are, affectionate and good-heartened; do not too harshly repress sentiments and feelings excellent in themselves, because you fear that some puppy may fancy that you are letting them come out to fascinate him; do not condemn yourself to live only by halves, because if you showed too much animation some pragmatical thing in breeches might take it into his pate to imagine that you designed to dedicate your life to his inanity._

_Love, your friend Maria._

 

And so I get up each morning, and stoutly refuse to show myself as someone who I am not; I will remain friendly, inquisitive, fascinated by the world around me. If some men take that to mean that my entire being points due them simply because they happened to cross my path, so be it – my verbal arsenal is well equipped to deal with such people.

Do not condemn yourself to live only by halves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much of Maria's letter was taken directly from one written by Charlotte Brontë to a friend of hers who, having shown kindness to a man she thought was married, then had to put up with him proclaiming his love for her. It fit so well with Isabella's situation (and society pushing her to not remain a widow) that I couldn't leave it out.


End file.
